


Enemies to Sons

by eris_of_imladris



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Family Feels, First Meetings, Gap Filler, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 09:32:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14746296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eris_of_imladris/pseuds/eris_of_imladris
Summary: Gil-galad’s relationship with Elrond and Elros from beginning to end. A prequel, midquel and sequel to Fourth Father from Gil-galad's POV, as requested by Tamuril2.





	1. Meeting The Boys

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tamuril2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tamuril2/gifts).



The tent flap opened to reveal a young soldier, his eyes wide, his mouth hanging open silently.

“Are we under attack?” one of the lieutenants asked, turning away from the king.

The soldier stayed silent for several moments before he blurted out, “They… they are alive!”

“Who is alive?” the lieutenant barked. “Speak clearly!”

“The boys… Elwing’s boys,” the soldier said, and a hush fell over the war tent. Only the whistle of the wind penetrated the deep silence.

“That is nonsense, they died nearly ninety years ago,” Gil-galad eventually said. The thought still kept him up at night sometimes, wondering how the two little boys had died. His own slowness in reaching Sirion had doomed them – what chance did six-year-olds have against the most fearsome fighters on Arda? – and he still thought of them sometimes, wondering what they had looked like, whether they were buried in proper graves.

“Our scouts say it is them,” the soldier stammered. “Apparently, they introduced themselves as Elrond and Elros.”

“It is a trap,” Gil-galad said quickly, not allowing himself to even feel a spark of hope. “Search them, they will have weapons – and whatever they try to claim, do not let them into this camp without my express permission.”

The soldier nodded and scurried away, and while the lieutenant tried to return to the scouts’ reports, Gil-galad’s attention was far away. He knew better than to hope. Hope never came of anything here, not when there was no guarantee of survival from one day to the next. He had long ago given up on keeping all of his people alive, but he knew better than to let someone with malicious intent into the camp on just their word.

But what if these boys really were Elwing’s sons? he wondered. They would be his family, princes in their own right, not to mention that the refugees from Sirion would be delighted to see them alive, especially after they hosted a memorial for the young lives lost. None of them had seen the boys die – but then again, none of them had questioned the deaths, which only made the sudden reappearance more questionable.

Trying to push his hopes aside, he strode out of the tent. “I will question them myself,” he said, and told the scouts to lead him to where the boys were. He would need to be strong for this, leaving his doubts aside. Leave it to the Fëanorians to make him question his failures.

Looking up, he saw several of his scouts keeping two figures at a respectable distance from the camp. He dared to get closer, even against the protest of his own guards, because the curiosity was beginning to get to him, and there were enough of his soldiers to kill the intruders if they attacked first. In the meantime, though, he would form his own conclusions.

At the age of ninety – if these were even the boys, Gil-galad stipulated again – they were tall and dark-haired, dressed in practical clothes for traveling, yet each boy had braided hair in a noble style, one that Gil-galad knew all too well. Neither had weapons, but one looked distressed as the guards searched his saddlebags, only to find several days’ worth of dried meat and berries and what looked like a folded piece of parchment, a map perhaps.

“Who are you?” he asked in Sindarin – what would be the boys’ native tongue, if it were truly them – when he got close enough, and both boys looked up at him and bowed deeply.

“I am Elrond, and this is my brother Elros,” said the boy on the left, whose braid was windswept but not picked at, unlike the other boy, who was picking at the leather tie in his hair.

“And why should I believe you?” Gil-galad said in a stern tone that usually worked on people.

“Why would we lie?” he replied.

“I can think of half a dozen reasons right now, but I would prefer you tell me,” Gil-galad answered. “Why are you using the names Elrond and Elros?” Even speaking the names felt like sacrilege – until just a few moments before, they were certain to be names of the dead. If he found these boys were simple tricksters using their names in vain, he would be far harsher.

“Because those are our names,” the other boy interjected, taking his fingers out of his braid. “What other names should we use?”

“Very well, two can play at this game. If you are Elros as you say you are, how did you survive the fall of Sirion, and where have you been ever since?” Careful to give no details about the lives of the refugees, and trying to remember as many details as he could about Sirion, he prepared to listen intently.

“We were with a nanny when the sons of Fëanor attacked,” he answered promptly. “We knew nothing of what had happened, but when Maedhros and Maglor made their way to our room, they killed our nanny as we hid under the table.”

“I hid under the table. And this one,” the one who claimed to be Elrond chimed in, pointing at his brother, “jumped out and tried to attack Maedhros with a knife our nanny had used to put jam on our bread.” “And Maedhros… allowed this?” Gil-galad asked, too surprised by the ludicrous story to ask for more factual details.

“He stopped and looked down at Elros, but he did not attack. And then Maglor knelt down and asked us for our names.”

“And he never once thought to use the sons of the ones who stole his silmaril as ransom?”

“I am sure he did,” the neater-haired boy said, “but he had no way of reaching our parents, nor did they try to reach us. Maglor took us when they fled, and brought us to one of their smaller forts.”

“And then they took care of us,” the other boy interjected.

“Why exactly would Maedhros and Maglor, known murderers, care to spare the children of the woman they came to Sirion to hunt down?”

“I wondered that for a while,” said the one who called himself Elrond. “I did ask Maglor about it, but he never had an answer.”

“So even if all of this is true – and I am far from saying it is – then why are you here now?”

“They had to go,” he replied, his eyes downcast. “They had to go do something. Probably something to do with their Oath, and they wanted to make sure we would be safe. So they sent us here and then they left.”

“You know of their Oath?”

“I know that it caused pain beyond what I could heal, and it made them do things they did not want to do, things they would not have done otherwise. And it is making them do something now that is not safe for us, so we are here.”

“They said you would be safe with me?” This part had puzzled Gil-galad the most so far. If Maedhros and Maglor had indeed kidnapped the children, whether for ransom or some other reason, why leave them here, when their own actions could easily cause the deaths of the boys?

“He said you were a good king, and that we could be useful to you,” said the one who called himself Elros. “Elrond has been learning how to be a healer, and I can fight with either hand.” A shudder ran down Gil-galad’s spine at the thought of these children learning fighting from someone with such a savage goal. Had he taught them about mercy too, or rather, how to lack it?

“We cannot trust them,” his herald said in Quenya, not bothering to keep her stern voice down. “They are traitors.”

“We are not traitors,” the messy-haired boy exclaimed.

“You speak Quenya?” Gil-galad asked, surprised.

“Of course we speak Quenya,” Elros said quickly before Elrond stepped in.

“Maedhros and Maglor taught us how to speak and read the proper way,” Elrond said, and the accent corroborated his words. The boys had learned from Fëanorians, from the way they pronounced their consonants – who could forget Fëanor’s insistence on his idea of proper pronunciation? – and that went along with the stories, although it only made things more confusing. Why would Maedhros and Maglor educate the boys only to leave them?

The horrifying thought arose that perhaps the boys were intended as weapons – Fëanorian loyalists in his camp, taught to sow discord among his troops. But why attack now? Gil-galad wondered. What could they be planning?

Although, he had to admit, he knew Maedhros and Maglor were intelligent, and there were many easier and smarter ways to get revenge on the remaining Noldor, even if they wanted to. And Maedhros, he had heard, had been quite adamant in giving up the throne, and presumably would not want to take it again… not to mention that spending these many years educating a pair of boys instead of hunting the two remaining silmarils still on Arda was not at all a choice they would make lightly. He stayed silent as the soldiers continued going through the boys’ meager belongings.

“No weapons, but there is a letter, my king,” one of the soldiers approached with the parchment taken from the boy with the wilder hair who might have been Elros. “For you.”

The words were written in a slanted hand, and the ink was smudged along the same slant – and yet, the individual letters were formed perfectly. There was no mistaking Maedhros’ handwriting, even without seeing much of it before. The letter was marked for “High King Ereinion Gil-galad, Lord of the Noldor,” and Gil-galad wondered how hard that was to write, for one king who had abdicated his very throne to acknowledge an enemy successor.

The basic story, he could see immediately, matched what the boys had said. Maedhros had taken pity on the young children and raised them with Maglor, and from the details he provided about their interests and capabilities, it was clear that Maedhros knew them well. If they were actors, they must have done an incredibly good job rehearsing, he realized. 

He continued to scan the letter, stopping to scoff at an absurd suggestion for Elrond to help with healing or battle strategy, as if he needed sabotage in either area. The end seemed sincere, but he had a hard time picturing Maedhros begging – or having mercy on small children, no matter the circumstances. But the fact remained that they spoke Quenya in the Fëanorian way, something no one in Sirion would have taught them, and between that and the stories and the letter, Gil-galad was having a hard time finding reasons to not believe their identities.

And regardless, even if they were clever imposters, he could not leave the boys to fend for themselves. They were still children, and if Maedhros was counting on that as his weakness, he would have to think of a way to counteract it. But nothing could make him go against his nature, even if that meant sparing the soldiers to keep the boys safe. It would be a small sacrifice to make for the lives of two who he had thought were dead for years.

“Get them something to eat,” he commanded, and he stood his ground even when his herald spluttered that he was falling into a trap. “We will keep them under strict watch,” he told her when the boys followed the soldiers to the very outskirts of the camp. “Nothing that they threaten will come to pass.”


	2. First Son

They remained a threat until a messenger rode into the camp nearly a year later, thundering hooves clattering. He jumped off his horse outside of Gil-galad’s war tent only to enter in a hurry and exclaim, “I bring news of an attack on Eönwë’s camp by the sons of Fëanor.”

He saw the frightened looks of his lieutenants, hardened soldiers afraid because of the simple reason that there seemed to be nothing Maedhros and Maglor wouldn’t do. His voice came first, when everyone else was still panicked: “Tell me what happened,” he said, because this would be necessary to determine any future actions.

“Eönwë had come into possession of the two remaining silmarils,” the messenger began, and a collective shiver ran up their spines. Were the Fëanorians bold and stupid enough to attack a Maia serving Manwë, of all the Valar to go after? He nodded to the messenger to continue. “The sons of Fëanor besieged the camp, only to take the silmarils and disappear into the night.”

The boys. They were Gil-galad’s first thought, and he shuddered to think of what they might report if they managed to reunite with the Fëanorians. They were never mistreated, but there was a difference between keeping someone as a hostage and treating them with kindness. Maybe the test was still to come, and maybe he had already failed. They had known no hunger or pain, but they had also known no love, and against his inner protest that he had to be cautious, guilt began to creep in.

“Do you fear an attack on this camp?” one of the lieutenants asked.

“Not at all – in fact, the sons of Fëanor will never attack anyone again,” the messenger replied, joy now fully evident in his voice, much to Gil-galad’s confusion.

“You said they escaped,” another soldier interjected.

“They did, but they were followed,” the messenger continued. Had Eönwë killed them, in the end? “Eönwë sought proof that they could do good, and he sent scouts to follow them.”

“I doubt they would succumb to misfortune on the road, unless they lost their minds entirely,” another soldier said, and Gil-galad briefly wondered if he should voice his concern that Eönwë was too soft and had let them go only to endanger the other remaining Noldor.

“The silmarils had been wrapped, and when they were unwrapped, a great cry rose as both Maglor and Maedhros were burned by their light,” the herald said, and Gil-galad’s breath caught in his throat. The only one he knew to have been burned by the silmarils was Morgoth himself, and he seemed to have a special level of evil that Gil-galad had never associated with anyone else, even the Fëanorians. With a jolt, he realized that he had at least set some standard for them as elves. The boys had not been raised by Morgoth and his valaraukar…

“They died to the silmarils themselves?” Gil-galad asked, knowing that if they had caused such damage to a Vala, they were unlikely to leave an elf alive.

“Maglor’s fell to the ground, but Maedhros continued to hold his, and…” the messenger paused, everyone seeming to hold their breath until his next words. “They were near the lava pits, and he… it is said that he threw himself into the lava with the silmaril, and Maglor threw his into the sea in response, walking away like a whipped dog, clutching one arm with the other.”

They were safe. At last, they were safe from one of the threats plaguing them, and the soldiers in the tent let out a joyous cry. And suddenly there was wine, and there was a glass pressed into his hand, and toasts and cheers. The people had little enough to be happy about that the neutralization of a threat was huge, and Gil-galad felt himself getting swept up into the sentiment, sipping wine as the soldiers commented on the likely-swift demise of Maglor and the end of Fëanor’s line. He supposed they had forgotten Celebrimbor, but that was easy to do, considering his lack of involvement with anything his line was hated for.

Suddenly, Gil-galad heard a thumping sound outside, and a small cry. Giving his excuses, he stepped into the night air only to see Elrond – he had reluctantly given Elros permission to visit an Edain village not long before – sitting on a nearby bench, head in his hands, trying as hard as he could not to cry.

Gil-galad instantly felt like a monster. He had been celebrating, and Elrond, a mere child, had been left outside – how much had he heard? – and he had heard nothing but joy at the deaths of the ones who had apparently treated him properly. The boy had shown little emotion in the year he spent in the war camp, but the Fëanorians’ deaths had affected him too deeply to hide. What else had he been hiding, Gil-galad wondered? And yet, he had no weapons, nothing but the tears running down his face and the startled jump to his feet when he realized Gil-galad had seen him.

“I am loyal, I am, I truly am,” Elrond blurted out, jumping to his feet, tears running down his face.

“I know you are,” Gil-galad replied, much to Elrond’s surprise. The boy looked at him like a hunted deer in its last moments of life, and as he sank into the bench, Gil-galad believed his story more than he ever had before. No one could act like this, especially not a child. He had been the adult here – the king, even – and everyone had taken his cues to mistreat this child because of his misfortune. He decided then and there that if things were salvageable, he would try everything he could to make both Elrond and Elros feel welcome, now that their inherent danger was gone.

“Come, sit with me,” he said as he sank onto the bench, patting the seat beside him.

Elrond sank down, quickly apologizing, and begging to not be killed. Did Elrond see him in the same way he saw Maedhros and Maglor? Were his actions not born of stubbornness but of fear? He had failed as a king if Elrond, his own cousin, truly felt this way.

“Kill you? Wherever did you get that idea?” he quickly dismissed Elrond’s fears, only for the boy to look at him with a surprised look on his face.

“You face no threat from… anyone at all if we die, and it might be easier for that way, for your rule.” The simple words were more open than the reticence he had come to expect from Elrond, and showed a more complex analysis of ruling than he had expected. He had been brought up by a former king, Gil-galad reminded himself, but it was still surprising. How much of himself had Elrond hidden to try to save his life?

“A rather astute idea,” Gil-galad began, but Elrond did not react to the praise. “But no, you are my family, and I am not a…” He nearly said kinslayer, but the tears in Elrond’s eyes made the word catch in his throat. He was mourning for a kinslayer, and there was no need to rehash his crimes that Elrond surely knew. “I do not intend to kill my family,” he finally said. “My father taught me to always respect family, and even though he has departed this world, I will respect his wishes,” Gil-galad rambled, hoping to evoke some kind of response.

“Your father was not a son of Fëanor,” Elrond whispered, almost too quietly for Gil-galad to hear over his attempts to control his loud breathing.

“No, he was not, but they were his kin, and he loved them,” Gil-galad said, almost as if realizing this for the first time. The feud had technically ended when Maedhros had surrendered the throne to Nolofinwë, risking his own life from the vengeance of his brothers to do what was right. Perhaps an elf like that, Gil-galad realized, might be the sort to take pity on children rather than kill them…

“Who would love a… a kinslayer?” Elrond asked hesitantly.

“There is more to the sons of Fëanor than kinslaying, although many only see their crimes,” Gil-galad replied, wondering if Elrond would recognize that he himself used to belong to this camp, and only the neutralized threat and Elrond’s reaction allowed him to even begin to think any differently.

“Is it hard for you to say that?” Elrond said suddenly, then blushed. “I only mean… when we first saw the new star in the sky, Maedhros and Maglor looked like they had quite a lot to say, but they held their tongues for our sakes, telling us that our parents were noble and valiant and had done a great deed for the world.”

Gil-galad was shocked into silence for several long moments. Even with the Oath that had taken everything from them urging them forward, the two notorious kinslayers had held their tongues for the sake of a couple of children? Whatever they had said or done in private, the fact that Elrond knew nothing about any criticism of his parents meant that the feelings Maedhros had expressed towards them were true.

“The mere fact that you stand before me today proves that there is more to them than the kinslayings, whatever the others say,” Gil-galad thought aloud – and it did not just mean the mercy of sparing their lives. They were not alive but miserable, save for the misery they had found in Gil-galad’s camp. “They could have left you both for dead, or killed you themselves, but instead you stand before me healthy, educated as a prince, and clearly with enough feeling towards them to mourn their deaths.”

“I may have met them as kinslayers, but I knew them as kin first and foremost,” Elrond said more confidently.

“I do not doubt that,” Gil-galad said, and another celebratory shout from the tent only made him feel guiltier. He knew he needed to say something, do something to stop the revelry, but not now – his men needed the all-too-scarce joy, and Elrond needed… well, Elrond needed a father. Gil-galad was entirely sure he was not the one who Elrond wanted, but he listened as the boy spoke again.

“But then they left me here with… I am sure things would be easier for you if I was not here,” he said, and Gil-galad winced. “Your soldiers would not be worried, and you would have one fewer enemy to contend with.”

“You are no enemy of mine, Elrond,” he said, unsure of how to convince him with anything more than empty words. His words were not what Elrond wanted, what he needed… and then he remembered.

The letter! The letter from Maedhros would surely mean more to Elrond, even if Gil-galad had summarily tossed it as soon as he decided to let the boys stay in the camp. He still remembered where it was, in a drawer, kept to be used as evidence. He had not expected to use it as evidence of love, but here he was.

“I need to show you something,” Gil-galad said, and he left the boy on the bench for the few moments it took him to rifle through the drawers and find the letter, almost in pristine condition.

He unfolded it, reading the words alongside Elrond. The respect for his title, he had noticed immediately, but where he had seen reason to be suspicious of Maedhros’ tone, he now saw caring for the boys, a desire to keep them safe. When he unfolded the bottom, he became surprised at the word “ellon,” knowing that Maedhros knew how to speak in the most proper Quenya, and was making a large overture towards an enemy, one he had entirely ignored in his earlier perusal.

Plus there was the year of good behavior, and the way Elrond and Elros spoke like princes, were educated and intelligent but never once tried to get their hands on weapons. Maedhros had spoken the truth, and now it was time for Gil-galad to tell the truth as well.

“He begged…” Elrond said as he ran his fingers over the signature.

“From this letter alone, I know he loved you. Whatever else Maedhros was, he loved you, and I am sure Maglor did as well.” The words felt strange on his tongue, but the facts were undeniable now. Maedhros and Maglor had loved the boys, and they had been loved in return, even after all their notorious deeds as kinslayers.

“And you do not mind?”

“I will admit it was disconcerting at first,” Gil-galad said, omitting the fact that up until this night, he had still been disconcerted by the thought that the boys may not be who they seemed to be, even when more and more evidence of their true identities piled up. “I will not lie to you, but I do not believe you are a threat, or that Maedhros would send you into the camp as a killer.” Voicing the theory, he noticed Elrond’s eyes grow wide. “And with that said, I think I have been in the wrong here.”

“You?” Elrond asked hesitantly.

“I let my assumptions decide how you and Elros would live your lives here. It was unfair of me, and I apologize to you, cousin.” Elrond let out the smallest smile at the word, and he began to see a way forward. It was strange to call him cousin, but now knowing that he was, there was more he could do, more he could trust him with. “Would you like to look over some of our tactical decisions, or apprentice with one of the healers?”

Elrond’s face lit up briefly before his eyes fell to the ground again. “I cannot – it would frighten the soldiers. You expect me to use a sword I do not have and slay you all in the night for no reason at all.”

“There are those who may think like that, but I am not one of them,” Gil-galad replied, hoping Elrond would not question exactly how long he held this belief. “And it has been unfair of me to expect others to treat you fairly without setting a proper example.” An idea came into his head, and he reached out his hand with the letter from Maedhros still inside. “I know you can keep this safe for me.”

“Thank you,” Elrond said quietly, and he remained quiet, toying with the edges of the parchment. He was so quiet and lost, what would he need in a moment like this? Gil-galad thought back to his own moments of loss, recalling that when he had escaped from Nargothrond, all he had wanted was touch, the physical knowledge that someone cared about him.

“Come here,” Gil-galad decided, opening his arms. The boy looked unsure, hesitating for a long time before he got closer. He melted into the hug, and when he looked up at Gil-galad, there was a spark of hope in his eyes that he had not seen earlier.

The onset of a small smile let Gil-galad know that even without a wife or any sort of begetting, he had gained at least one new son that day.


	3. His Fathers' Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this wasn’t part of the original request, but my muse decided this is what it wanted to write, so here I am xD My idea of the gem in Vilya, for reference, is based on a star sapphire.

Gil-galad’s herald stopped to admire the banners of elves and men snapping in the wind before he entered the war tent with his head held high.

“Ah, Elrond, I was wondering where you were,” said the king, and Elrond offered a quick bow.

“I was looking at the banners, my king,” he said in a confident yet wistful voice. “It feels right to have Elros’s descendants with us on this day.”

Gil-galad nodded, marveling once again at Elrond’s strength. Elros had chosen mankind, wounding his brother in a way no one else could, and after Elrond visited him on his deathbed and came back alone, Gil-galad had wondered if that would finally break him, if the loss would be one too many. And yet, he had hung on, resuming his education as a warrior and a healer – and if he spent more time than usual staring up at the stars or losing himself in books, no one said a word.

It was a strength Gil-galad admired, one that had eventually won over the people and led to his rise through the ranks until he was second only to the king himself. Which was why he was needed there, on that day, before the great battle was set to begin. There was something Gil-galad knew only he could do.

“Do you know why I have summoned you here?”

“To review our strategy?” Elrond supplied what Gil-galad usually would have done, but his plans today were different.

“Actually, there is something I wish to give you before the battle begins. Something that I believe belongs in your hands far more than in mine.”

“Before the battle?” Elrond asked, then a shadow of realization crossed his face. “We will emerge victorious,” Elrond said adamantly, but Gil-galad still heard the tremble of the boy on the bench many centuries before. But now, there was no Elros to console him, no one at all who he trusted at a remotely similar level.

“Whatever comes to pass, I wish for you to have this,” Gil-galad said, shifting the golden plates of his armor to reveal a tiny hidden compartment. His fingers dipped inside only to withdraw moments later, with a radiant golden ring cupped in his palm. The band was comprised of several smaller, curved golden bands woven together seamlessly, as if braiding gold was as simple as braiding hair. There was one for whom it would have been possible to make a design such as this, but Elrond didn’t seem to believe it, not until Gil-galad rotated the ring to display the large sapphire bound to the center by golden filaments. When he tilted it, thin rays of light burst from the center, forming a star pattern radiating from the jewel.

“This is one of the Three,” Elrond sputtered.

“Vilya, the Ring of Air,” Gil-galad said. “Entrusted to me by Celebrimbor himself, many years ago.”

“This is dangerous, we are too close to Mordor, why are you showing me this?” Elrond tried to coax Gil-galad’s fingers back together, but the king’s hand stayed firm.

“I wish to entrust it to you,” he said, stretching out his hand.

“Why?” Elrond immediately asked. “Do you not have need of it to protect your forces, your people?”

“Our people,” Gil-galad replied, “will garner strength from whoever bears it, so long as it does not fall into the hands of the Enemy. And I believe you have the strength to use it well.”

“But why do you want me to bear it when you are…” Elrond fell silent. “You have seen something?”

“It does not take foresight to know that we are near Mordor, and that Sauron has known of me for many years – he once even tried to convince me himself, in disguise, that I needed to ally with him. He knows me too well, and I have no doubt he has told his forces to look specifically for me in the hopes of finding any one of Celebrimbor’s rings. But he would not expect it to be in your possession,” Gil-galad explained, and although Elrond looked like he had a good deal to say, he stayed silent.

It was not an unexpected reaction for Elrond, but even when Gil-galad thrust his open palm out again, he still did not take the ring. He looked at it curiously, then touched it with one finger before quickly withdrawing. “The metal is so smooth,” he said when he touched it again. “I did not think it could be this smooth with such a complex pattern.”

“Celebrimbor was a true artist,” Gil-galad responded, “and descended from a line of powerful smiths.”

Elrond’s eyes snapped up. “The history… you would give me this, even with my upbringing?”

“Elrond, I would be saddened if you do not know that I trust you after all these years,” Gil-galad said softly.

“There is a big difference between trusting someone and giving away heirlooms of the House of Fëanor.”

“You are not any less loyal to our people for having loved them,” Gil-galad patted Elrond’s shoulder. And the fact that he could give his heir an heirloom befitting his unusual upbringing would only help him in the times to come, after his own death, when Elrond would be the one everyone looked to.

Even though it was thousands of years after Elros took his throne, Gil-galad still wanted to give Elrond everything he could in order to prepare him. If he could give Elrond his own blessing as well as the strength of Maedhros and love of Maglor that he had heard so much about, it would be the perfect way to say goodbye.

Elrond smiled at his mentor, the man who had been his fourth father for thousands of years, before finally reaching out and taking the ring, balancing it carefully in his own palm. Gil-galad nodded and was about to turn to other matters when Elrond began to speak, then hesitated.

“Yes, Elrond?”

“This is not for some other reason?” Elrond asked. “Not some prophecy?”

“Aeglos would have to take the life-blood of many before I would leave you,” Gil-galad deflected, wishing that he could offer some other support to the younger elf who had become as close as a son over the long years. “Thank you,” Elrond said quietly, wrapping his fingers around the ring in Gil-galad’s palm.

“I would not advise wearing it in the battle, it could endanger you, but you will find a similar hiding place in your armor if you wish to keep it there,” Gil-galad said before telling Elrond a small tactical change in troop arrangement, something to get him out of his head and onto more practical matters.

Elrond nodded and left with a cross between sadness and determination in his eyes. Gil-galad hoped that would be enough, and that even when he met his inevitable death, Elrond would not feel alone.

Gil-galad noticed a new confidence in how Elrond commanded the troops, a new strength in his eyes. And none of it came from the ring in his pocket. He had seen it flare in Elrond’s eyes when he took the ring, not greed, but a deep strength and desire to help. The confidence of Gil-galad giving him the ring, showing his ultimate faith in him, bolstered him immensely. Elrond would carry on, Gil-galad knew, after his death and the deaths of so many of the Noldor sure to come at the hands of Sauron.

“Herio!” Elrond boomed as the orc army approached, and if Gil-galad saw a redheaded elf lord and his brother charging forward at Elrond’s side as he ran, he smiled, though he knew it must have been a trick of the light.


End file.
